Jake leaned back on the bench at the edge of the school field, sweat dripping down his forehead, his jersey sticking to his skin. The late afternoon sun painted the sky with streaks of orange and purple, and the faint hum of crickets in the grass told him that the day was drawing to an end.
The rest of the basketball team was still fooling around on the court, but Jake had excused himself a little earlier. His legs were sore from practice, and besides, he wanted a few quiet minutes to himself before heading home.
Pulling his phone from his bag, he scrolled through his e-book library. His eyes caught on one particular section, filled with hundreds of chapters of his favorite pastime—cultivation novels.
Jake chuckled to himself. "Man, some of these authors really don't hold back, huh?"
He tapped open one of the stories he had been following. As usual, the protagonist was groveling through another situation where he refused to kneel, refused to compromise, refused to… well, use his brain.
"Why are they always like this?" Jake muttered under his breath, running a hand through his sweat-dampened black hair. "It's always the same cliché. Some trash talent who gets reincarnated, gets a cheat, and then boom—offending everyone left and right just because they can't swallow their pride. Face this, face that. How many people have died in these novels because the MC just couldn't bend his knees once?"
He shook his head, amused but a little annoyed. "If it were me, I wouldn't be that stupid. Survival first. Pride second. These guys all act like the heavens revolve around them."
Still, despite his complaints, Jake loved the genre. He had read dozens upon dozens of stories, each with its own twists, systems, clans, and sects. He loved the idea of growing stronger, of breaking through barriers, of walking a path that touched immortality.
Leaning back, he let out a long sigh. "If only cultivation were real."
His lips curved into a smile.
Unlike those fictional protagonists, Jake's life wasn't miserable at all. Far from it. He was eighteen years old, tall for his age at six feet, with a muscular build honed from years of sports.
He wasn't a loner buried in books or games—he was the starting forward on his school's basketball team. His social circle was wide, and girls noticed him.
He had a girlfriend, Emily—sweet, smart, and beautiful. Before her, there had been a couple of other relationships too, nothing dramatic, just the normal ups and downs of teenage life. He wasn't perfect, but he wasn't a loser either.
If his life were compared to a novel, Jake figured he'd be the "above-average supporting character." Not the main hero, but not the cannon fodder either. Just someone enjoying the ride.
The sound of laughter reached his ears, and he glanced toward his teammates. They were packing up, slinging their bags over their shoulders. Jake stood and stretched, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt.
"Alright, let's head out," one of his friends called.
"Coming," Jake replied, shouldering his bag.
The group headed toward the parking lot. Jake's car was waiting, an old but reliable sedan his dad had helped him buy. He tossed his bag in the back seat and started the engine. A few of his teammates piled in for a ride.
The drive was filled with music and chatter, the easy rhythm of teenage life. Jake was content, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping along to the beat. For a moment, he thought about the future—college, more basketball, maybe something serious with Emily. Life wasn't perfect, but it was good.
Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
The traffic light ahead turned green, and Jake eased the car forward. The intersection was wide, a blur of headlights from the other lanes.
And then—screeching tires.
A blinding set of headlights tore through the night. A truck barreled across the intersection, far too fast, ignoring the red light.
"Jake!" someone screamed from the back seat.
Time slowed. Jake's eyes widened, his grip tightening on the wheel. His heart lurched into his throat, but there was no time to react. The truck was already there.
The impact was deafening.
Metal crunched, glass shattered, screams filled the air. Jake's body jolted violently, pain exploding across his chest and head. The world spun, colors blurring into chaos. He heard his girlfriend's voice in his mind, his parents' faces flashing before his eyes.
"So this… is it?" he thought dimly. His vision tunneled, the world narrowing to a single point of darkness.
A bitter laugh echoed in his mind. "Guess I didn't get to become the protagonist after all. At least… my life wasn't bad…"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
When Jake's eyes opened again, he expected the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room.
Instead, he was greeted by a ceiling of carved wood, painted with golden dragons. Silk curtains hung from the walls, embroidered with cloud motifs. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sharper, like medicinal herbs.
Jake blinked, confusion gripping him.
"What the…?" His voice sounded strange, softer, higher.
Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bed. His body felt… different. The soreness from practice was gone, replaced by an almost electric vitality coursing through his veins. His arms looked leaner, more defined. His skin was smooth, unblemished.
He swung his legs off the bed, his bare feet touching the polished wooden floor. A shiver ran through him—not from cold, but from the strange awareness flooding his senses. He could hear faint footsteps outside the room, the rustle of leaves in the wind.
"This isn't a hospital," he whispered.
His gaze darted around the room. The furniture was old-fashioned, carved with intricate patterns. A lantern glowed faintly in the corner, but it wasn't electric—it was powered by some kind of glowing jade stone. Weapons hung on the far wall: a sword, a spear, a halberd, each polished to a shine.
Jake's heart pounded. He clenched his fists, staring at his hands. They weren't his. His fingers were longer, his skin paler, smoother. His nails were perfectly trimmed, like those of a pampered noble.
A thrill of fear and excitement surged through him.
"No way. Don't tell me… this is—"
His thoughts cut off as his eyes caught something reflective on a table across the room. A polished bronze basin filled with water.
Jake stumbled toward it, his breath caught in his throat.
He leaned over, staring into the reflection.
The face that stared back wasn't his own.
It was the face of a boy—twelve years old, handsome beyond reason, with sharp black hair framing noble features and clear, determined eyes.
Jake's chest tightened. His reflection looked like someone straight out of the novels he used to read.
His lips parted, his voice trembling as he whispered:
"…This isn't Me."